My Favorite Mistake
by taniaSLC
Summary: Having married Darcy, Amanda finds life pleasant, if unsatisfying in certain ways. Thank goodness Wickham has been installed as vicar of Pemberly and is there to... amuse her. Saucy Amanda/Wickham pairing, rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything involving any of the characters or plots of Lost In Austen. I do not mean any infringement or to cast aspersions on something I love so dearly, I'm just playing with Amanda and Wickham. Please don't sue me.**

**This is rated M for later chapters. If that bothers you, please do not proceed further. Thank you!**

I hadn't meant to tell Wickham anything about my marriage, and certainly nothing regarding problems that Darcy and I might have had regarding certain matters. I had meant to merely spend an evening talking with him, walking through the grounds of the vicarage (egads- Wickham finally installed as vicar of Pemberley, and, no one had seen it coming, but he was actually good at it). We'd spent much time doing just those things, ever since he and Caroline had returned from their honeymoon in Italy. She'd be off, cleverly arranging to see one inamorata after another, having been well-schooled in the art of arranging secret assignations by her husband, who could not care less. Darcy would be gallivanting around running the estate; George and I had every chance in the world to keep company, and no one ever seemed to regard it as suspicious. Of course, before that night, it wasn't.

Sure, Wickham was Wickham, and there was no changing him- marriage and taking the cloth notwithstanding. Our conversation was frequently laced with flirtatious comments, coming from both of us, but that never seemed noteworthy- it was just the way we talked, how we communicated. It would have seemed more odd if we never said anything inappropriate during those times spent in the company of no one but ourselves. I relished the chance to return to some of my older modes of speaking, and I think he relished the chance to once more don the mantle of the irrepressible rake. He somehow reveled in the offering of this persona to one of the few people on Earth who knew how false it was.

Amidst the dry desert of my marriage bed, I was susceptible to George in a way I doubt he'd ever imagined. In light of Darcy's affectionate yet platonic treatment of me, George's persistent allusions to my attractions turned my head. I knew he was just full of it, still I couldn't help but blush and be pleased by each word from his smirking lips.

Before I knew it, I had a crush of the hardest kind, the stupidest kind, and seeing him was the highlight of any day. I was like an idiot thirteen year old girl (remember when you were thirteen and read Wuthering Heights and swooned over the undying passion of Cathy and Heathcliff, instead of being appalled that they were so despicable? It was that brand of thirteen year old stupidity). I was like a sunflower, willing the sun to appear so that I could open. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't stop- which means only that I didn't actually want to, and the thought that I ought to hate myself was stronger than any any actual thought toward restraint. It was worth it to feel that rush, to feel the calmness mixing with excitement that happened whenever he looked at me. Does it make one less of a prat if one acknowledges one's one prat-ness?

Did he mean any of it? Of course not. He was merely a practiced flirt who didn't want to see his flirting muscle atrophy- who better to exercise it on than me?

That evening, he greeted me at the door himself, already offering a beverage- fine brandy from the south of France, courtesy of Bingley as a thank you for George recently christening his and Jane's first child (the dutifully-named Amanda). I began to sip it, but George encouraged me to knock it back. I did, just to prove that I could (turns out, my ability to belt back liquor had deteriorated a bit, and he was vastly amused at my spluttering).

"How fares Lady Darcy this fine evening? Aside from what I can see with my own eyes- that she's lovelier than ever, somehow surpassing herself at every turn."

"Oh, Good God- am I a Lady?"

"Last time I checked."

"I keep forgetting. Ought a lady to be getting in her cups with a vicar?"

"So long as he is the vicar of her own parsonage, all is as it should be. And should he be a devastatingly handsome and charming fellow, all the better."

"In the absence of such a man, I suppose you'll do, George."

"And I see that when Lady Darcy imbibes, the result is a cutting tongue. I shall make a note of it."

"See that you do! You know what to do with a cutting tongue?"

"Direct it against a place which I've a surfeit of blood? I happen to have such a place, and very nearby, but cutting it was not what I had in mind. Perhaps your tongue would like to do something else with this place of mine?"

"George! That's the nastiest thing you've said to me in ages- I DO rather miss you being completely rude. Sometimes. No, I was going to suggest that the tongue softens when more liquor is added to it."

"Aha! Which falls more readily in mind with what I mentioned before. Another drink, milady."

He poured more into my glass and then sat beside me on the sofa. I happily sipped this one and let my body relax into a posture more like what I'd displayed before being in this particular here and now.

"Gods above, I miss slouching!"

"Slouch away, then. I promise to tell no one, least of all Swellerando."

"I told you not to call him that! He really isn't so bad, you know."

"True. I greatly appreciate him offering me this living. Imagine having to find an actual vocation with which to fund my dogged pursuit of the finest lady in the land! There is no dignity in such a thing."

"I believe you are paid for your services as a holy man, George. Payment in exchange for services would be many people's definition of a vocation, would it not?"

"Bah. Technicalities."

"And what fine lady are you seducing now? I shall be very upset if you leave me all on my own out here."

"You've your husband. Is he not a sufficient mate?"

"No, of course I have him. He is lovely, you know. Loving and doting and devoted and intelligent and generous. Probably part of me always dreamed of being a woman of leisure, being taken care of financially. I know that's awful to say, but it's true."

"Why should it be awful?"

"Where I'm from, a woman is expected to make her own way, financially as well as in every other way, and to be beyond the lowly need for a man."

"Sounds an unpleasant combination of tedious and dreary, this place you describe. Why should you not rely upon a man, if there is a man who wanting you to rely upon him?"

I remembered a line of dialogue from one of my mother's favorite films and giggled so hard that it turned into a snort. At his quizzical look, I burst forth with, "I've read The Cinderalla Complex, I've read The Second Sex! I am responsible for my own orgasm!"

He stared. I calmed my semi-hysterical giggles, then raised my glass. "Here's to Teri Garr- one hulluva dame!"

"To Teri Garr!"

He readily toasted and we clinked glasses.

"I have no idea what that was about."

"Someone else said it, a long time ago- or a long time from now, depending on how you view it. It's a joke."

"Do tell."

"I said it's seen as lowly and degrading for a woman to need a man financially. Groveling before men in order to beg love and sex is also seen as degrading. A woman is supposed to make herself happy in this way- a man is secondary. 'I'm responsible for my own orgasm!' It loses something in the translation."

"Certainly this is utter foolishness. In matters of love-making it is the responsibility of the man to please the woman, not for her to please herself."

"That is slightly advanced of you, George, given that we are in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and twelve. But in my experience, it is always the work of the woman to see to her own pleasure. I've been bloody responsible for my own orgasm for my whole damned life- particularly in the last thirteen months."

See? I hadn't meant to say that. It's so simple to forget that when I talk about my sex life, I'm also talking about my husband's. But having no one to discuss these things with, I'd forgotten the rules for exposure of sexual secrets. Bollocks.

"Thirteen months would be..."

"The length of time that I've been married, minus a month. That first month was a little more hands-on."

"Do you mean to say that your husband has not pleased you in thirteen months?"

"I mean to say that he hasn't even tried in twelve."

He looked at me with complete shock- his jaw actually dropped.

"A year? One whole, entire year? You have not... He has not- you mean it's been a year since-"

"Darcy and I last f- that is, enjoyed coitus, over a year ago. One year, one week, and three days. But who's counting?"

"Surely he finds other ways of affording you pleasure. Just looking at you as we sit here, I can think of at least thirteen ways that I could make you a very happy woman. That's not even really dedicating myself to the idea- that is just what I think whenever I see you. How could your husband feel differently when he looks at you?"

I was taken aback at this, and there was a pause as I wondered about him coming up with such a specific number so quickly. But then I shook my head and responded to first part of his assertion, not the second.

"Pleasure, certainly. We took a very nice trip to Bath. We've been to London six times. I have everything I could want so far as books, physical comfort, and many other things. I am satisfied and pleasured in many ways."

"Not in your boudoir, though."

"Nope. Well, I take matters into my own hands on a regular basis. Which is fine. Aside from worrying about contracting carpal tunnel syndrome." He raised his eyebrows. "Persistent pain in the hands and arms caused by repetitive fine motor movements."

He continued to look agog, and I found myself feeling defensive. The best defense being a good offense, I began to deflect.

"Come on, George! You married a lesbian- when was the last time you had sex?"

"I'm not the topic at hand-"

"I'm making you the topic at hand! When did you have sex last?"

"I am in a completely different position from you! Unlike you, I did not marry for love."

"Dammit! So, I spend the rest of my born days with a shitty, non-existent sex life for the the crime of assuming that one of the greatest romantic heroes in the Western canon would be a fantastic shag because he's perfect at everything else? Because it turns out, Jane didn't write him with the capacity to be good in bed- I can't train him to be better, because he is what he was written to be, and it never occurred to her that he was lacking anything because she never put 'bedroom skills' into his nature? I can't fight against what he is, and so much of what he is really is perfect, really is exactly what I want. It's that one thing...

"I think that he's never been able to truly forget that I was with other men before him. He says that he finds sex to be demeaning, for both of us. And that might be true- but I think he still can't handle the fact that I have experience in an area where he doesn't, and he can't forgive me for it.

"And I can't do anything about it- I can't change his mind. Most of the time, I just don't think about it. It's not the most important thing in the world, so many other things matter. I've known girls who put up with right shits in order to have good sex, and I am happy that I don't have to do that. I have it very, very lucky in the love department. He adores me. Fitzwilliam Darcy adores me- Amanda Price. It's perfect- except for that one... little... goddamned thing..."

I hadn't intended to rant, I had certainly not meant to cry, but there I was- a soppy drunk. I covered my face with my hand, ashamed to be, well, such a _girl_ about this whole thing. Getting drunk, ranting about my sex life, and dissolving into sobs (not merely tears- big, ugly, noisy, wet, sobs). I might as well be in Sex and the City- and not the television show, the movie; that awful, hideous, parody of itself. Which is what I felt like just then: a parody of myself. Who in the hell marries Darcy and then complains about it?

George took my drink from my hand, and I heard him put it on the nearby end-table. With my hands free, I could put them both over my face, pretending that it meant I wasn't really there and that none of this was happening. Seeing him was always the best part of my day, and I never meant to lay my heavy crap of a burden on him. It wasn't his problem, it was mine, and we all know what happens when girls go all mushy and heavy with men like Wickham. They bolt. True, he hadn't bolted yet- he'd actually rescued me a couple of times. But that was when, I think, part of him was still trying to pin me down and classify my genus and species- now that I was no longer Amanda Price: Unknown Quantity, and instead Amanda Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley, what was to keep him from discarding me?

That thought not only failed to slow my tears; it made them come faster and harder. Because the truth was that I needed George Wickham, and here I was, doing one of the things that I was certain would separate us. I had no illusions that he needed me half so much as I needed him, but I think I fulfilled a slight role for him. I was the unavailable married woman on whom he could hone his racket, keep him reminded that he used to be a player. I was frivolous fun for him, not a soul mate. I was someone he thought about when I was physically present, but not when I was away. If he ever scented how important he'd become to me, he'd be shocked and he would flee, not needing the burden another dependent female in his life.

I'd always kept this foremost in my mind when dealing with him. I never prated on about dull household matters, or forced him into discussions he didn't want. I was capricious, I was chatty, I was a light-hearted flirt who placed no demands upon him. And this, this messy show of something or other, was likely to be the end of us, and where would I be without him? Trudging through a dull life with no entertainment. All of those swooning butterflies that Darcy had inspired in me had been replaced by a happy contentment, and I did love him. But George made my skin hum and my blood race, and I would desperately miss our little interplay of (on his side) pretend affections if it were to disappear.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, George."

"What on earth have you to be sorry for?"

He pulled me to him, and I let him, thrilling, as always, to his touch. He pressed my face to his chest and smoothed my hair again and again.

"This is not lady-like."

"Sod it. My wife is lady-like. If I wanted lady-like behavior, I'd be somewhere with her right now. I am with you and I have no regrets."

"Yes, you do. You don't need some stupid, drunk, sobbing woman bemoaning her sex life on your sofa."

"What do you know? Perhaps I invited you here tonight with the express purpose of getting you drunk so that you could end up sobbing in my arms. This is all just part of the plot."

"Yes- crying women being oh, so attractive."

"Crying or not, you're in my arms, are you not? Triumph for George Wickham! In my arms is halfway to my bed. I see no way that this is not a good thing for me."

"You idiot."

"Perhaps."

"I don't, for a moment, believe that you brought me here to seduce me into falling into your arms or your bed. You're just trying to make me laugh."

"It worked."

"I guess it did at that. Oh, hell, I'll be back."

I stood up and left the room, attempting a veneer of dignity, but stumbling about due to the combination of drink and eyes that were blurry with tears. I finally ended up in the water closet, and washed my face in the icy cold water from the pitcher there. It felt fantastic, and I hoped it'd calm the swelling in my face that I could feel underneath the flush that suffused my face anytime I cried.

I returned, feeling childish and silly. I lingered in the doorway with arms crossed, trying to warm my hands by pressing them to my sides.

"You came back." He sounded surprised, but pleased.

"What else was I going to do?"

"Flee home through the back door."

"Would you rather that?"

"Gods, no. I worried that you'd feel foolish and be too embarrassed to return."

"The only reason I didn't is because I'm too drunk to remember that you have a back door."

"Why do you stand there? Afraid to get closer? Worried that you'll fall into my eager clutches once more?"

"No. Just... feeling foolish."

"Nonsense." He gestured beside him, indicating that I ought to return. I crossed to him once more, sitting primly beside him.

"You look like a chastised child."

"I feel like one."

"Gods, Amanda, you are foolish. Here, lay you down, put your head onto Father George's lap, and confess all that ails you. You'll feel better for it."

He somehow managed to push me around, gently, and arrange me so that I was laying with my head on his leg. I laid on my side, facing the room. I moved a hand underneath his thigh as if it really were a pillow, and he jumped.

"Sorry! Was that too inappropriate, even for the great George Wickham?"

"Not a bit. It's just freezing, your little hand."

I giggled. "In about eighty years, that's going to be a song."

"Ah, you pretend once more to be a time-traveler! I like this version of you. Tell me more."

"It's in an opera. La Boheme, by a man named Puccini. It's about a bunch of starving artists. The two lovers meet in the cold and he sings a song about how cold her hands are."

"Sing it for me."

"Not bloody likely. Besides, I can't remember how it goes; I only remember the remake."

"Remake?"

"In the 1990's the opera gets remade into a musical. I almost remember that one..."

"So sing that. I'm not particular."

"I'm going to pretend this is because I'm still drunk, and not because I am always ready to sing show tunes, okay?" And so I launched into Rent. And I got into it, too, which was embarrassing. I closed my eyes, I belted it out, and at a certain point there was definitely some shimmying taking place as I lay on the sofa.

"And so it, goes, Wickham. A whole lifetime spent cleverly hiding the fact that I'm a musical theater nerd, and I am undone... here... at your hand."

I moved back, head still on his leg, so I could look up at him. With one hand still tucked beneath his thigh, I used my free hand to take his, and just like that, I was holding his hand.

"Sing something else for me."

"Why? Not enough for you to have a drunk girl talk about her disappointing sex life and burst into tears- you need drunken singing in order to complete the cliched picture?"

"No, because when you sing you close your eyes, and can't see me inching my hand ever closer toward caressing your face. If you become entirely transported, I might be able to have all of my wicked way with you without you noticing and reproaching me for it later. Or, perhaps, I like the sound of your voice. Or perhaps your chest moves most becomingly when you breathe from your midsection like that..."

"Silly George. Well, what do you want me to sing?"

"I want you to sing something that is just for me."

I thought of something racy, I thought of something inviting, but I gave in and and began to sing the first song that came to mind. In for a penny, in for a pound- I might as well continue the vein of honesty.

"You give your hand to me, and you say hello. And I can hardly speak, my heart is beating so. And anyone can tell, you think you know me well, but you don't know me. No, you don't know the one who dreams of you at night; longs to kiss your lips, longs to hold you tight. I am just a friend, that's all I've ever been, 'cause you don't know me."

If I really was just living in a strange version of Austen's world, this all made sense. There's always the scene where the hero sees and hears the heroine playing the pianoforte and he falls for her, he sees her clearly for the first time, and everything that can ever be possible between the two of them crystallizes in the sound the music she makes. I figured that was an avenue not available to me, as I could not play a single note.

But as I finished singing and opened my eyes, it was to find George looking at me intently. Instead of indulgent amusement, I saw something else written across his face, darkening his eyes. His face had a Col. Brandon sort of expression- and it punched me somewhere in my gut, I couldn't breathe- my lungs were closing beneath the weight of his gaze, leaving me afraid to break the spell by so much as blinking.

_A/N- I keep not feeling entirely satisfied with this chapter, and updating it a bit here and there, without really changing much. I might just call it a day and move on at this point..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Still don't own anything in Lost In Austen. Nothing devious is intended herein, just some fluffy fun for our plucky heroine and her dauntless sidekick.**

_Author's Note: This is where the sauciness begins. If descriptions of sexual situations between consenting, if fictional, adults is not your cuppa tea, progress no further. As Dinah Lord would say, it's all pretty rooty-tooty. She, of course, wouldn't be allowed to read, but would smirk and say, "I can tell there's something in the air because I'm being taken away..."_**  
**

Our hands were touching- not holding each other, but moving, fingers never stopping, trailing over and around fingers and palms, and even the slightest touch of his felt like it burned me. I didn't think this moment could last, the perfect instant, where the whole world seemed to be holding it's breath, and I just wanted to remember everything about it, to hold it in my heart to warm me on those long nights with Darcy snoring soundly beside me, unable to hear the need that called out from me, the need to be touched and loved. It was a call that George seemed to hear, one that he answered yet, but seemed unlikely to ignore. We stood on a precipice, and I hesitated to move, afraid that if my unasked questions were met with rejection, I might just be killed stone dead.

But then I could bear it no more, the question, the stillness, and I knew it fell to me to break it. I took his hand and brought it down, to press my lips against his inner wrist. And then another eternal moment, of my lips pressed to the thin, sensitive skin, as if memorizing exactly how warm it is, as if they could sense the vividness of the blue lines tracing through the whiteness of his flesh. His eyes hadn't wavered, and I was afraid to move mine. Every breath came tremulously, terror at what would happen next commingling with the possibility of satisfaction.

In response to the kiss, he flexed his fingers slightly, and pressed his hand to my face. His fingers moved across my face, he touched his thumb to my lips, and I found myself closing my eyes, parting my lips- half as an expression of the joy in his touch, half as if to invite him to press further, eager to take any offered part of him into any part of myself that I could. His hand moved to the back of my head, and the slow deliberation seemed forgotten as he raised me toward him, pressing his lips to mine even as his hand held my head in a vice-like grip that brooked no refusal, an urgency that did not let me move away.

I had no desire to move away, but I needed more, needed to be closer. I sat up completely, still kissing him, and he moved to hold me to him, but I wouldn't let him, not just yet. In what I hoped was a somewhat fluid movement, I lifted myself to my knees and adjusted my skirts, climbing atop him. He seemed surprised to find that I was somewhat suddenly sitting on his lap, straddling him, facing him, but not as surprised as he was a moment later when I wrapped around him, pushing him into the sofa with the force of trying to embrace him with my entire body- arms, legs wrapping around, holding tight, like a hungry death grip. And he was holding on to me- fiercely, pressing me tighter and tighter against him as I kissed him, deeply, passionately, forcing his head back. His mouth opened, as if to accept my need to devour every part of him that I could, unable to stop, unwilling to pause even for breath, only seeking out more and more.

I moved a hand to his face and caressed as I kissed, holding him still until I'd had my fill, but who knew when that might be? Just as the kiss became an agony, I broke it. He made as if to resume, but I forced his head back, and kissed his neck- licked, nibbled gently at first, and then a surge of pure sexual desire gripped me and I began to press against him in what became a rhythm. I felt him even through my dress, through his thin trousers, and the urge was so strong, it poured through me and there was nothing for it; I gave in, sank my teeth into the flesh where his neck met his shoulder and he cried out.

If he were anyone else, I would have paused. This was the part during every other encounter, where I would something and then stop to check that it was okay, that I hadn't crossed a line of acceptability. But I was not going to stop, or pause, or ask, or apologize- I remembered his words- that he smelled his own scent on me, and realized that this is what he meant. It meant that when this finally, inexorably happened, it would be like this. There would be no apologies, there would be no holding back and no reservations because George was the first man who could take it, who could take me and not need to be warned, not need to be coddled, not require explanations. I would hold nothing back- not only because I refused to compromise that way ever again, but because I would never, ever need to do that with him. It wasn't anything except what it was- the first time someone was the right person, someone who could handle it all. And judging from the sounds he made, from the way he breathed, from the way his hand latched onto my hip, both directed and holding on, all of it meant that he needed this at least as much as I did, and he wasn't holding back either.

He wound his fingers through my hair, and he pulled. I cried out in surprise, but also in pleasure, as my neck was exposed and he buried his teeth there- he found the place on my neck that unwound me, that undid me, that sent delicious pain radiating all through me, and the pleasure that was left in its wake nestled between my legs as I pressed harder and harder against him. His hips moved, too, meeting my rhythm in a dance as if it were practiced, and then I couldn't stand it anymore. I slithered down his body, I pulled down his braces, and I peeled down the top of those beautiful, fashionably tight trousers, until he was free, straining toward me.

I reached for him, held him still, between my hands, and eagerly licked the tip. Sharp intake of breath, maybe a whispered word, and a slight movement of his hips, moved toward me a fraction of an inch. Lips locked around my teeth to keep them out of the way as I slid up and down, seeing exactly how much I could take, exactly how far he could press against the back of my throat before my body said that that was enough. I moved my throat as if to swallow him and a keening noise came from his mouth. His hands weren't on me, they were grasping for purchase on the sofa, trying to hold on to the smooth velvet, then balling into fists. His arousal was effective in arousing me, and I greedily groaned against the presence of him, and I knew he felt it all the way down to his very center. I pulled my head back and then I licked up and down and kept moving my hands as I and pressed my lips up and down and sliding my tongue around the whole head again, amazed at the slick smoothness and taste and loving it all as I kept sucking and my hands never stopped. I knew he was close, I knew he was straining, and then he suddenly pushed me away from him, sending me sprawling in a surprising moment of strength that left my head spinning even more than it had been a moment before. I was only shocked for a moment before I saw the evidence of his orgasm shoot out of him- he'd gotten me out of its way, just in time.

I stayed on the ground, watching him. He reached into his pocket, removed a handkerchief, and cleaned himself off. His breathing was still jagged, his eyes dilated, and then he looked at me where I was. I smiled a small smile, as if to ask if he'd enjoyed it as much as I thought he had. He didn't respond with words, he just lunged at me.

I went to kiss him, but he pushed me back. In the space of a heartbeat he had my skirts above my waist, moving aside clothing in an eager yet well-practiced manner. Having exposed me, he raised his head and grinned at me. Then one hand locked around my thigh, reaching around and pulling back my flesh, exposing my clitoris. I felt an instant of a rush of cold air before he locked his lips over it, making my hips twitch. His other hand pressed on my abdomen, holding me down as he sucked me into his mouth. He darted a tongue across me, and then began to swirl it around and around, a maelstrom in his mouth, a storm of intense pleasure. All of my usual worries when this happens (does it smell all right? Does it look all right? Do I have some kind of deformity that my doctor never mentioned to me?) were not exactly dismissed, moreover they didn't have a chance to cross my mind.

He quickened the speed of his ministrations, taking more and more of me directly in as the flesh engorged under his mouth. His finger entered me, reaching so far, I swear it was about to touch the hand he kept pressed to my abdomen, separated only by some layers of skin. He curled it back toward him and I knew what he was trying and I wanted to warn that it wouldn't work, that it's a myth, but then a slight movement slightly back and forth, pressing rhythmically and then he sucked on my clitoris again and it was in his mouth and his whole mouth was encircling me and swirling around and around and he sucked harder and harder and pressed again and again from inside and suddenly, I knew that it was here, not a myth. The holy grail, the g-spot orgasm was being drawn out of me by his finger, through his mouth, screaming its way into existence, searing, seizing my entire midsection and I arched, I went rigid, I might actually have left the ground, except he was anchoring me there, not letting me leave, not letting up on the touching. He kept licking and pressing, and it was coming back, and I was banging my hand on the ground and it hurt, but it didn't stop what was happening. He paused for a half moment and when he started again it came again, and this time I was pressed backward beneath the weight of the pleasure, laid flat, screaming from somewhere, and then growling and whimpering and the orgasm wouldn't stop, and my entire body seized, curled around him, raised me to a sitting position, crouched forward. The movement started to pull me away from his hand, but he followed, not giving up, not moving anymore, just staying there, as if his finger were somehow giving the orgasm something to bounce off of, as if keeping it held there, not letting it leave. I was spent, spent so hard, just laying back, letting it wash over me- after shocks. I clenched my muscles around his finger, relishing the simple bliss. I stretched out my arms, I was satisfied to an extent I'd never known. The pleasure spread up and out, encasing my whole body- even my fingertips were pleased, my nose about to sing with the joy of it all. I smiled, knowing that the satisfied grin on my face was probably downright goofy, but there was nothing for it- I was too sated to care.

"George..."

He lifted his head, disentangled himself slightly. Lifted himself up so that he was looking at me while resting his chin on my stomach, grinning the same goddamned grin that I knew I was grinning at him. We still hadn't fucked, and the intensity was still there, but there was also the goofy drug of satisfaction, making us both so happy just like a high- a silly, punchy high.

I moved away from him, and then back. Now we were both stretched out on our stomachs, on the floor of the vicarage parlor, disheveled clothing and entire bodies flushed with sexual satisfaction with ridiculous smiles pasted on our faces.

"You, George, are rather good at that."

"Just rather good? Not excellent? Not noteworthy? Not astonishing?"

"Um..." I giggled again, and kissed his forehead. "That was the single best orgasm I've ever had, and I'm including all of the ones with the vibrator Piranha bought me for Christmas that cost 200 pounds and had four moving heads. It was amazing. I think I saw God, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny as well. I might have left my body and gone to dance with Hare Krishna. I'm not certain, but I might have died for half a second there."

"Well, I don't like to toot my own horn. And you, Miss Price..."

"Was it okay?"

"Okay? Was it okay? No. Not okay. Try stupendous. You are... amazing. It was- I've never attained completion as a result of that particular act- not that I've had it performed upon me overmuch. A handful of times, maybe. But you- you are the stuff from which legends are born. I swear, I'm completely sincere. I thought it was impossible for me to accomplish what happened, and you were like a miracle-worker."

"You're really not lying to make me feel better."

"I am a kind man, but I am not _that_ kind about things of that nature. If it had been lacking, I would have stopped you and moved on to another activity. And you're not lying to me about whether I was helpful to you? I am out of practice..."  
"I know your wife's a lesbian, but lesbians like head, too- she doesn't let you go down on her?"

I could tell he was unfamiliar with the term, but could still take my meaning. "She finds my stubble to be an issue."

"Shame. Well, any time you want to practice on me, just say the word."

"And you- Darcy does not enjoy your... ministrations?"

I combined a scoffing noise with a chortle. "No, certainly not. He finds it degrading for us both."

"What errant foolishness. I do not understand him at all."

"I told you- he's not a bad man. He's very good, and he quite dotes on me. He just finds sexual activity to be pointless and demeaning."

He hopped to his feet in a fluid movement that bespoke his fitness. He might've been out of the army for a little while now, but he still seemed to have the reflexes that had been honed for the glory of God, England, and St. George. He reached for my hand, and urged me to my feet. I stood and he grinned, then kissed me quickly on the cheek.

"I've something to show you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: same as usual**

**_A/N- Also, the same as before. This is some smutty fluff. If this offends you, please do not read it. _  
**

I followed him up the short staircase, down a poky hall, and through a door. The room was small, but the main feature was a surprisingly large bed, built into the wall, bearing two posters, curtains, and sheets of a strangely vibrant shade of purple.

"Are you showing me the purple sheets? Okay. Very ecclesiastical, George."

"Not a bit of it, you know very well-"

The sentence ended when I kicked the door shut. I grabbed him, slamming him against the closed door, and then was kissing him as voraciously as before. Except that now I could taste myself on his lips, coated on his tongue, and it made me remember, almost forcefully, exactly how good he is at this. I was holding him in place, pressing against him, and he did the only sensible thing- he began to undress me. He attempted to pull the sleeves down, but they wouldn't go. He ripped them instead. I started on his clothes, not letting the task distract me from kissing- kissing him so hard that we would both be bruised come the dawn.

Finally, we were both naked, and I stepped back. He stepped toward me again, and again, I stepped back. Another step and I could feel the bed with the backs of my legs. He reached toward me, but I pointed to the bed.

"Now. Get in."

He surrendered, his willingness to do as he was told going quite a ways to helping my arousal reach its previous heights. He got into bed, and pulled the covers over himself, but I clicked my tongue at him.

"No. I am going to look at you."

I pulled back the sheet, and let my eyes rake up and down, over the sight of him. He was not overly muscled, but I prefer a leaner frame to other available options. His muscles were defined, but he was still so slim that his hips stuck up, ever so slightly. I moved atop him, and I could see and feel him reaching for a kiss, but I ignored him. Instead, I moved my face to his chest, kissing, licking, nibbling. I dragged teeth down his sides, feeling him breathe, almost able to see his heart beating within his chest, feeling his stomach twitch with anticipation as my mouth wandered lower and lower. Supporting myself with one arm pressed to the bed, I reached with the other and gently touched his scrotum, trailing the lightest of touches around and around, so, so gently- a gentleness directly offset by the nearly vicious hunger with which I then sunk teeth straight into his left hip. He jumped, and I stroked between his legs more, and then licked and sucked at the skin covering his other hip, feeling my breast brush against his leg as I bit him on that side.

I looked toward his face and moved to go up his body once more, this time deliberately pressing my breasts against him as I went. I could tell that this pleased him, and it also pleased me, teasing little half-caresses of his skin against mine. I moved back up and adjusted myself so that I was lying atop him, but still supporting most of my weight on my knees and elbows. I kissed his lower lip, then licked it.

"George..."

"Yes, Amanda."

"I'm going to tell you the truth about two things right now, because it seems like a good time."

"Hmm-mmm." That seemed like a, "Yes, of course, I'm definitely listening most intently." His hands were reaching up, tracing imaginary lines up and down, following the curves of my hips and waist, across my lower back, beginning to drive me a bit insane; awakening, tiny bits and pieces at a time, ever more hunger and desire. He moved one hand around and touched my stomach, and I didn't even bother to suck it in to feign a thinness that wasn't there- I was not trying to lie or even to impress, just trying to feel every moment of pleasure offered by his every touch.

"First of all, I want to tell you that I am barren- I was, well, sick, back when I was a teenager. I'm fine now, but it means that it is physically impossible for me to become pregnant. So, you don't have to worry about that.

"Second, I want you know that this, right here, is something I've wanted to do for months, almost years now."

"Since the moment you met me?"

"No..."

His hands found my breasts-pressing, touching, pulling, teasing, and I wondered if he realized exactly how much he'd got me almost to the edge.

"Since you told me that I have spunk and gave me a pound. Since that moment."

"Amanda, I should tell you..." We moved almost without me noticing, so that I was offering him my breasts- they hung into his face and his sentence was lost as his mouth found my nipple and sucked so hard I almost came right then and there, and thank god he didn't say anything there, I wouldn't have heard. And then he sucked even harder, and began using his teeth, and I didn't know exactly what he was doing, only that I was whimpering and moving against his stomach, rubbing myself against him in an undignified manner, as if I were in heat, but it was so very, very good. And I couldn't wait- I couldn't wait for the rest of his sentence, or for him to do more of what he was doing, or for anything else, because I needed him, needed him to already be inside of me. I reached back, directing him as I moved gently back. I took the tip of him, and pressing him against my clitoris for a half moment and pausing, shuddering with the jolt of pleasure, before I lifted myself up, and lower back onto him. I raised to a sitting position and I looked down at him, wondering what he was thinking, hoping he thought I looked beautiful, needing for just a moment to believe that he thought that of me. I knew he thought me intelligent and crafty, and skilled at what I was doing, but did he...

"I should tell you, Amanda." Oh, that's right, he'd been talking. I began to move, stretching up and forward and then rocking back, gently to start with. I was about to forget he was even there when I felt his hands on mine- winding our fingers together, holding hands as we moved.

"I've loved you since the second you refused my help getting out of- god's wounds, oh, woman, you are perfect."

"You're already inside of me, George. You don't need to lie while there you're there. You don't need to flatter."

He moved up, but the contact didn't break even as I was suddenly on my back and he rose above me.

"Dammit, woman- what I'm saying is that-" he was thrusting, slowly, gently, holding back, almost as a kind of punctuation. "Every time I called you beautiful, every compliment I ever paid, every time I said you hold my heart- I pretended it was just flattery, I pretended it was a game... and that's a lie. Because I've been in love with you since that moment. I can't stand that you married Darcy, because I love you more than my life. I married Caroline in the hopes of being near to you. I love you, Amanda."

And then he began to thrust in earnest, and the thrusts were coming faster, and harder, and going deeper and deeper, and he sank his teeth into my nipple and I cried out.

But there was something I wanted even more than what we were doing. I stopped him, and gently disentangled myself. He seemed confused, but I smiled as I arranged myself, silently asking him to instead take me from behind.

I could have put it in more explicit terms, could have shown him what I wanted, but he understood without that. He obligingly approached and then slowly, deliberately guided himself into me and I gasped, wrapping around him, squeezing from the inside. He shouted in response, and for a moment didn't move, giving us the chance to enjoy one last still moment. And then the pace resumed what it had been was before- harsh, frantic, faster all the time. I didn't need to urge him to go faster, I didn't need to tell him, "Deeper," because he did all of that on his own, somehow doing everything I wanted him to do, half a moment before I would ask. He grabbed my hair in a bunch and yanked my head back and as he pounded into me, and the noises being made were so ridiculous and I couldn't even care because it hurt like an ache and an ecstasy at the same time, and then he let go of my hair and reached around to the front to touch me and I almost died and he went even faster, and he was hitting me so deep inside. We were both bellowing and screaming and everything was a confusion of pleasure that was so intense it felt like it invaded our very skin and then it broke out of us. Then came a sudden silence as it hit us both simultaneously, and we stopped moving and were frozen like that, in yet another eternally preserved moment of abiding perfection.

He collapsed against me, and I could feel our sweat forming a seal. Suddenly I could feel the sweat all over my body meeting the coldness of the room and battling against the heat searing off of my skin. I shuddered, and it was from cold not satisfaction.

"You haven't fallen asleep have you?"

"Not yet, but I could if you wish it were so."

His arms embraced me from behind, crossing my stomach.

"No- you can't not yet. Let me get out from under."

"No! I like you here too much." He moved up and kissed the back of my neck, causing a shudder that was not from the cold. "The odd thing is, I think that was a good response, and I really want to go on kissing your neck and making you squirm, but I'm horribly afraid you might've killed me. I am but a wraith now."

"Wraiths weight less when they lay atop one." I ducked, swerved, and could feel him pulling out from inside of me as I freed myself enough to lay on the bed. He collapsed straight down, and the bed made an ominous creaking noise as he flopped onto his belly.

"Did we just break your bed, George?"

"No, no- certainly not. I think it's shocked to see such goings-on is all. It hasn't seen anything like that since, well, maybe during the tenure of the former vicar. Who was the last vicar? Probably since him. Goodness knows, Caroline and I have never christened it with such activities. Caroline's never even been in this room. This particular piece of furniture has seen only the sad sight of me entertaining myself. Maybe it creaks as a way of saying congratulations."

I laughed. He reached a hand across, and pulled me against him, kissing me on the neck.

"Don't do that unless you want to get me started all over again- hell, even if you do, I don't think I can go yet."

"Have you already forgotten what I just said- the bit about how you've killed me? I couldn't if I wanted to. Wraiths don't copulate."

"Oh, George, you can't ever be a wraith. I see you as more of an incubus, waiting to on the chests of sleeping women and violating them, sexually, in their sleep."

"Now that you say it, there is a certain appeal."

"Do you really love me?"

"Yes, of course. If I were to lie about such a thing, as you pointed out, I would have lied in order to be in that position, not to maintain it when I was already there. God's own truth."

"You really love me?"

"Are your brains rattled? YES, WOMAN- I LOVE YOU!" He paused and then sighed in an exasperated manner. I thought it might be frustration with me, but he spoke his next question as though annoyed with his own need for this particular answer. "Do you love me?"

"Yes. And no. I never thought it was possible to love two people at the same time, but I love Darcy and I also love you. If that's possible, then the answer is yes."

"Of course it's possible. If you are, then it is possible. That's like saying, 'Is it possible to drink from this teacup?' while you're drinking from it already. If you're doing it, it's possible, isn't it?"

"True... You're not going to get all stupid and think we should leave our spouses, are you?"

"God, no. I'm no fool. No, strike that- I am a fool in many ways, and everyday I find new ways to explore the endless possibilities of foolishness. But I'm not a fool such as that. I have no romantic notions of sweeping you away to a far country so that we might do something stupid and dramatic. Besides, I can't leave Caroline- she's pregnant."

"You said that the two of you-"

"Oh, we haven't."

"But she's a lesbian! If she's not gonna sleep with you, why would she go out and... Well, that's just silly. Who's the father?"

"No idea. Don't care. I hope, for appearances' sake that the father is not of Ethiopian extraction, but further than that I don't feel a need to concern myself. She lives her life, I live mine. We have what we both want from this arrangement."

"I think I could have what I want- if I get Darcy for daytime and you for nights."

"You shall have me however you desire me."

"I know! We'll burn down the manse!"

"You mean my house? You want to burn down my house? What would it accomplish?"

"Why then, you'd have to come live at the main house!"

"It's an idea, love. Did you say that Swellerando is in town at present?"

"Yes. He's there for a fortnight, arranging... something. I know he told me... I just can't remember all that business and holding stuff; it's too dull. But he's gone for the next thirteen days."

"Then you shall stay here tonight, yes?"

"Yes."

"And after we've rested, we'll do more of this?"

"Yes, George- we will do a lot more of this."

"And after he gets home?"

"Problem is, I can't be honest with him the way you are with Caroline. My marriage is based on love- I can't think of how to persuade him that what he just did doesn't in any way dimish the love that I have for him. I can't think of any version of events wherein he isn't hurt, and I don't want that. He can be very traditional about some things."

"I'll think you find more men who dislike the idea of their wife bedding another man than you'll find men who think nothing of such things. I'm sure he's in a majority."

"True enough, I'm sure. I wish there was a way..."

"Enough! I declare that we've spent long enough discussing your husband. Let us speak of something else. I propose we discuss... um."

"We could talk about your wife for a while."

"I'll pass, thank you just the same. Sing me a lullaby."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Why should I be facetious about you singing?"

"I've never had anyone want me to sing for them before- well, not if they'd already heard me sing. Darcy puts up with me wandering around singing all the time, but he's never asked me to sing to him. What do you want to hear?"

"You decide. You're apparently an endless font of songs. Something soothing."

I thought for a moment, then remembered the song I used to sing to my charges back in my babysitting days.

"Goodnight, my someone; goodnight, my love. Sleep tight, my someone, sleep tight. A star is shining its brightest light..."

I felt his body relaxing as he really did drift off to sleep as I sang, his arm laying more and more heavily against my waist. And once he was breathing deeply and softly, I stopped singing. I thought of my husband, I thought of my duplicity, and wondered that I did not feel more guilty than I did. But then I decided to give myself one more night of not really thinking about it. Instead, I let myself drift away as, in his sleep, George held me even tighter to him and murmured my name.

_Author's Note- And that's all, folks. Thanks for reading; thanks even more if you enjoyed it at all. _


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